#without realizing how he was coming off

[inkykeiji]

hello good morning let’s all give him the forehead kisses he deserves ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ )

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 Damian

If you really think about, Damian's situation in the clone^2 au is... kinda tragic? Especially in the early months of his arrival. Like,,, think about it. Damian has always known he was a clone of Damian Wayne, that he was a copy of the blood son. There was nothing 'original' about him, not even his name (of which at least Danny has that). He was just... a replacement. A disposable one, to boot.

And he knew that, to an extent, by the time he was six years old. he might not have been actively acknowledging it -- he's six years old -- but deep down he knew. And like, he's six years old. Every small child craves the love and affection of an adult, especially their parents, and even though he knew he was clone, I imagine he still considered - and still does consider, somewhat - Talia and Bruce as his mother and father. And I really doubt he was... getting it?

Now, I know Talia loves Damian, her son. At least in some interpretations she does, and in this au she does. But... a clone of her son? I'm not so certain if she would have the same affection for baby Dames as she would for Damian. I don't think she would treat him badly, but I don't think Talia would treat him warmly either. Kinda just, distant. Colder than she would have been with OG Damian.

And, I know I've mentioned Damian's arrival from Danny's point of view, and its kind of comical kind of insane from his perspective -- a little boy clone of Damian Wayne falls through a portal and immediately attacks him. That sounds like a bad joke.

But, if you think of this from Damian's point of view? It's like he just got dropped into a scary movie. Like, think about it. You're six years old, and suddenly a portal, as green and as swirling as your grandfather's pools, opens up beneath your feet and sucks you through.

After an intense bout of vertigo, you end up in a massive, urban city -- completely different from the rural mountain palace that you lived in for the last six years of your life, and in this city, you don't know any of the language. You don't know what anyone is saying, you can't read any of the signs - you are completely stranded, away from home.

And then, to make things worse, you're facing a figure with a terrifying mask and eyes as burning green as the portal you fell through. Of course Damian's first instinct, six years old, is to attack. He's terrified.

And this figure, he's not a good fighter, but he's fast, and he dodges you quickly. He grabs your sword with his hands, and tries to restrain you, saying something in a language you don't know. Naturally, Damian is just scared. He's six! He'd just be learning how to read if he was normal child going to school.

This figure halfway through the fight yanks off his mask -- he realizes you're scared -- and looking at you now, is a youthful version of your father. This is a clone of your dad, someone you have never met but, six years old, still wants to. Damian gets defensive. This is an imposter.

But this imposter eventually gets you home with him - and he's using his little box, his phone, to communicate with you through a mechanical voice speaking in arabic. and it's frustrating. The boy, the imposter, can say whatever to you just fine, but trying to talk back is a hassle and a half. He's six, he doesn't have that much patience.

He wants to go home.

And so he keeps trying to run away. He keeps trying to find out of this hellish concrete jungle, and he keeps getting lost. It's loud, and busy, and there are people talking to you and you don't understand them, and there are rules and signs you don't understand - Damian tries to cross the street and nearly gets hit by a car. He doesn't know how the road signs work, he was never taught. They didn't get to that.

And he gets lost. And it gets dark, and Damian is brave, but he is six, and this is the worst stress he's been under in all his six years of life. He wants, desperately more than anything, to go home. Why wouldn't he? The only stable... semi-stable environment he was in just got ripped out from under his feet, literally! He wants his mother.

And it's not happening.

But there's something good to be said, at least. The imposter that looks like his father always comes and finds him, no matter what. He could have left that morning, and he will find Damian at midnight, frazzled and worried, and carrying an extra jacket with him because it is cold in Amity Park and Damian is six years old.

And sometimes Damian attacks him - he's scared and stressed and he doesn't want to be here. And every time he catches the sword. Even though Damian can see it cut into his hand and pearls of blood well up and stains his fingers. Even though Damian can see him wince in pain and bite his lip, he still catches it.

But with that little box, he coaxes Damian to come back with him. It's cold, it's dark, Amity Park is unsafe at night. They can figure something out tomorrow, please. And every time, he agrees, reluctantly. And the imposter takes the extra jacket he brought with -- a flannel, a hoodie, a jacket -- and he wraps it around him. It's warm, Damian's clothes are not that thick, and even though he thinks he might hate this imposter, he still sticks close to his legs as he leads him down the street.

And sometimes the imposter carries him, because Damian's shoes are not that thick, and he cuts his foot on broken glass while they're walking home. The imposter sits in the bathroom with him and carefully cleans the cut out, and makes sure it doesn't get infected.

There's hope you know, he still has it. His mother will be looking for him. She'll be worried. He's important to them. Damian may not be the original, but he is still a blood son. He is still her son. She will come find him. This nightmare will end soon. He can go home.

And then weeks pass, and nothing. Then months, and nothing. His family is not coming for him, and it hurts. Hurts more than anything. And yet while that happens, the boy he's attacked, and hurt, teaches himself arabic in order to speak to him. He takes Damian out of the house one afternoon and buys him new clothes, or tries to. And then he keeps buying him new clothes. He gives him blankets and gives up his bed to him until they can get him one himself, and steadily he teaches Damian english.

This boy is kind. Kinder than Damian's ever experienced, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He's devastated by the fact that he is not as important to his family as his family is to him. What do you do when you're six years old and you learn something like that? When a random stranger who looks like your father is kinder to you, and cares more about you than your family did?

And then Damian tells him he's a clone. He's Damian Wayne's clone, and he tells him his purpose - that their grandfather made him to kill him. And the boy, the imposter, Damian thinks he probably already knows that he's a clone. But he doesn't say that. He just nods, and asks him if he wants to tell his original about him.

Damian says no. He doesn't want to. He's tired of living in the shadow of his original. He wants to keep this to himself. This is his. For once, all of this is his.

And to his surprise, the imposter doesn't try and convince him otherwise. He just nods, and says okay. And when Damian asks why, the imposter - his brother - looks at him and says.

"I don't care about Damian Wayne. I care about you." And in Damian's gobsmacked silence, his brother continues. He tells him that if Damian doesn't want to tell his original that he exists, then they don't need to. They don't need to worry about the LoA going after him, because clearly if his 'grandfather' needs to make a clone of Damian in order to take him out, then whatever it was that Damian Wayne was doing to keep himself safe, was working.

"Wayne already has people in his corner, he's got Gotham's army of vigilantes to keep himself safe." his brother says with his eyes as blue as moonlight. "You, however. Do not." And he continues, and says that if Damian Wayne has the same training as Damian does, then he will be fine. He doesn't need to be aware of his clone. Because if DW doesn't know about Damian, then the LoA doesn't either.

And here's the thing. Damian would not have survived in the LoA for long. Not as a clone. No matter what, he was going to die no matter what he did, and sooner rather than later. The sword of Damocles was always hanging above his head in the League of Assassins.

That portal, and meeting Danny, saved his life. There's no way around it. And to an extent Damian knows this even at six years old. He may not be aware that he would've died, but he knows that meeting Danny was the best thing to happen to him.

It's no wonder after that, that Damian is as clingy to Danny as he is. Danny is the first person he's met to offer him unconditional love, with no strings attached, only pure affection.

[kismetconstellations]

♡ ♡ ♡ for @sockdooe

[puhpandas]

Tony Becker is one of the only times that I've seen that a character has actually been doomed by the plot when people say he is

[cranberrymoons]

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[quietwingsinthesky]

if there was a torchwood/spn crossover, jack would get shot in the head so much. i know he already dies a lot, but he’s going to die so many times during this crossover. keeps getting bullets unloaded into him. they stab him with silver and steel and copper and none of it keeps him down. he’s gonna get squirted with borax and that one’s not gonna kill him but it is going to ruin his coat, which is materially worse for him.

[deus-and-the-machina]

miyako calling aqua and ruby her son and daughter...WAAAAAH AUGH girl you are working so hard ;-;

then BOOM ex husband time. oops. awkward. 

[tiktaaliker]

one thing that i still think is really impressive is how maggie stiefvater pulls off having so many different POVs in the raven cycle. like!!! ive read so many books where even two or three povs end up either getting annoying or dragging shit out but maggie manages to pull off FIVE GODDAMN POINTS OF VIEW PER BOOK. and thats not even COUNTING the one offs like with the persephone and maura chapters in blue lilly lilly blue. like god DAMN that's a lot. and the fact that we get THE ANTAGONIST POV TOO but because of how it's structured we still dont get to see everything. and i dont even know how to describe it properly but MAN. MAN

[secretmellowblog]

Random, but. It’s fascinating how “Valjean and Javert written by someone who thinks cops are Good” is so radically different from “Valjean and Javert written by someone who thinks cops are Bad.”

Like, for me the number one Thing that will determine whether I enjoy someone’s take on Valjean and Javert are whether they realize that the police/prison as an institution destroyed both of their lives, and is the villain of both of their stories XD.

But yeah it’s really fascinating! Both in adaptations and in fanfiction, the tone/interpretation with which the plot beats are handled can change so much about the characterization. All the adaptations/fic start off with the same basic plot beats but so much can be changed and colored (for better or worse) by the way the author chooses to interpret them

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

Thinking about Eusine's hairstyle in my style tonight ✍️✨

Lil' bonus under the cut ->

[g0thsoojin]

.

[randomwriteronline]

What did Kopaka remember?

Quiet in the mountains. Chaos. Endless seas. Clanging of metal. Chills of adrenaline in battle.

Warmth in his chest.

The last one was puzzling.

The first three he could see; the second two he could imagine from a glorious past as a proud Toa, a warrior, a hero - the clear shape of it forgotten, but its meaning still there.

The last one, though.

The last one was puzzling.

He was a Toa of Ice. A being forged in endless blizzards, as unrelenting as the avalanche, the snowstorm, the glaciers - as impenetrable as the permafrost that freezes the roots on their path.

He was not supposed to feel warm in his chest.

He was not supposed to be clumsy or get lost easily, either.

Who had ever heard of that? A hero who could not find his path? Did that mean he would not have recognized his own destiny if the elder had not assigned a Protector to guide him? That he would have wandered aimlessly, confused, if not rescued and merely left to his own devices? That he could have been swayed by the minions of Makuta and turned into a foe of his own siblings with ease? That it could have taken as little as a step in the wrong direction to turn him to evil?

He tried not to dwell on that.

He tried desperately not to dwell on that.

He turned his thoughts to Pohatu.

It always helped, to turn his thoughts to Pohatu.

Pohatu was... Well.

Pohatu was perfect.

He was powerful, stalwart, dutiful. He did not speak unless needed, sometimes not even then. He remained serious, stoic, focused in the face of danger. Nothing could have made him crumble, nothing could have made him doubt or flinch. He was smart, and steady, and strong: he was above them all.

He was a proper hero.

The only one out of all the Toa who Kopaka could truly look up to, aspire to be like.

Tahu was too loud, obnoxious, bossy, Gali too neurotic and self-certain; Onua was kind, but slow to wits and hardly capable of dosing his power; Lewa refused to listen to anyone but himself.

And Kopaka, though try as he might to seem so, was far from perfect.

Pohatu was perfect.

He envied him. He adored him.

So what if he was aloof, what if he seemed to hate them? What if a Scorpio or two got him once? What if he got nervous in the dark, and needed a shoulder to lean on to steady his breathing again? Happens to the best of us.

Of course Kopaka would protect him.

Of course he would jump to his defense.

It was an honor.

A way to show him.

See? I am like you. I am a true warrior like you. I am a proper ally to you. I am worth your time.

What self-centered things to think.

But he could not help it.

Pohatu was perfect.

He truly was.

Kopaka watched him as he slept, warmed by a fire Tahu had set up, instead of focusing on the surroundings of the camp. He watched him safe from judgement, as all the others too were asleep - he could hear their breaths and snores, could tell them apart from those alone. He watched him: he slept sitting up, curled in on himself, hands clamped around his arms, knees pulled to his chest, head dangerously leaning forward always about to fall. The glow barely escaping the sliver between his eyelids was dim. Something in the way they were shut gave the impression he was frowning fiercely beneath his mask.

He looked so strangely small.

He never looked happy.

Why did that hurt?

That was just how he was. Never happy. Never overtly, maybe never at all. Always more concerned with something else.

Why did that hurt?

It was a phantom pain, behind his nape.

He could not place it, could not figure it out.

It must have been something, one of the many things he could not remember, not fully, not completely. Something shapeless, but still there.

What did Kopaka remember?

Quiet in the mountains. Chaos. Endless seas. Clanging of metal. Chills of adrenaline in battle.

Warmth in his chest.

Dark.

Mlexqr?

Mlexqr!

Mlexqr!

Pohatu was looking at him.

It scared him briefly.

His hand had somehow gone, all on its own, to find and hold the Toa of Stone's.

He hadn't even noticed he'd moved closer to him.

He hadn't even noticed he'd woken him up.

He hadn't even noticed he'd held his hand.

Pohatu was looking at him.

Kopaka looked back, silently, stupidly, because he could not have explained himself if he had wanted - and he wanted, stars above knew he wanted.

This was no heroic behaviour. This was no behaviour at all, period.

What would the other think of someone like that? Someone who moves closer to a sleeping person and holds their hand like that, for no reason, waking them up out of nowhere and not offering a single explanation for the trouble?

He was annoyed, certainly. He had to be. He had to hate him by now, for such an incomprehensible inane action.

What was he doing?

What was he doing?

He couldn't even answer himself.

He kept holding his hand.

He should have stopped.

He kept holding his hand.

Pohatu was looking at him.

He did not let go of Kopaka's hand.

The shape of his eyes seemed less furrowed. Slightly, only slightly. But it really did seem a little less furrowed.

Tenderly, comfortingly, uselessly, Kopaka caressed the other's knuckles with his thumb.

Pohatu let him.

They remained like that for a while.

A long while.

Kopaka watched intently as the other Toa's face, what little he could see of it, mellowed out until it was calm. He watched as his breathing turned deeper, more tranquil. As his body unclenched.

It reminded him of that moment as they walked underground, looking for a way back to the surface, before they'd emerged from the empty tomb into the city's cemetery - when Pohatu had suddenly leaned on him, silently, and had seemed to be soothed immensely by his mere presence.

Maybe Lewa had been right. Maybe he was afraid of the dark.

No wonder he had looked so terribly unhappy as he slept. There was nary a light in the sky. Even stars would have barely done anything to help.

He had nothing to worry about now, Kopaka's hand said with a gentle dead seriousness through the gentle chill that it emitted as he kept caressing Pohatu's knuckles with his thumb. He was there with him. He was not letting go of him.

The phantom pain behind his nape cried.

They did not say anything.

But Pohatu's dim eyes took a strange shape, a softer shape. A shape Kopaka recognized.

Beneath his mask, he was smiling.

Smiling.

Warmth in his chest.

So sweet and sudden that it burnt and singed and scarred him beneath his armor, potent enough to make his heart stutter and shake with a violence he wasn't sure anything else could replicate.

Kopaka tightened his hold a tad more.

Pohatu smiled.

Just a little, but he smiled.

Warmth in his chest.

The phantom pain behind his nape wailed.

Pohatu's head laid on his knees, maybe not too comfortable, but no longer at risk of slamming onto them. His hand was slack in Kopaka's, though it held on: it felt like a stone left under the sun, radiating pleasant heat upon a chilly palm.

He had fallen asleep again.

Kopaka continued caressing his knuckles for a moment more, just to make sure he wouldn't wake up immediately.

He looked into the fire, into the night. He should have let go, at some point: certainly the Toa of Stone wouldn't have enjoyed being made fun of by Lewa for needing his hand held throughout the night. Certainly he would have glared at him viciously, yanking himself away from his fingers with a hissed warning of never doing that ever again.

Or maybe he would have said nothing, and only hated him in silence.

Or maybe he would have said nothing, and held onto him still.

He thought back to the shape of his eyes when smiling.

Such a familiar shape.

A familiar look.

A warm look.

Warmth in his chest.

When Gali took over guard duty and allowed him to rest, Kopaka forgot to let go.

[zevrans-remade]

💀

[rawliverandgoronspice]

One thing I really like is that the whole Unhallowed Vespers trilogy (so Litany, Descant and Antiphon) is that is really served as my brainstorming test grounds for Thralls.

There are ideas in there I realize I don't like as much as I thought in hindsight, or conflict with other stuff I decided I'd rather pursue instead, and I get to have explored them before committing to those in a more long-form kind of project --or some that are too subtle or complicated to be carried out outside of writing (mostly thinking of a ton of Ganondorf character details, some things about gerudo culture that I want to tweak, characters that are getting axed because We Don't Have Time, etc).

On the contrary, there are things I set up in there I never actually got to explore, and I get to pull out that thread in here instead (basically every single of the hylians' character arc roughly, Nabooru, even Impa in a way). It's pretty weird and interesting to revisit the same core ideas twice, but in a different medium and with different character arcs in mind starting off the same thing.

[whothehellisoli]

having a conversation about being queer and terminology and rights and shit with a cishet person who doesn’t know you’re queer is exhausting💀

[clonehub]

bliz, always in need of advice, too proud to ask, makes a demand of his desperate need for help